Sunday, December 14, 2008

The Worst Kind of Irreverence

Our kids don't really have quiet voices. They are the proverbial office pariahs, the Will Ferrell-esque loud talkers who suffer from voice immodulation syndrome. Just ask anyone (everyone) that attends church with us. These boys have absolutely no comprehension of words like "whisper" or "inside voice" or even "hush". They think that reverence means folding your arms and not running, and while that's definitely a start, we would love it if they suddenly developed an ability to keep it down, especially during church.

This has been a problem since they started talking. In fact, my blog title came from one particularly loud outburst by G-Dog. (See this post for an explanation.) And I expect they come by it naturally. After all, CPod and I are both a bit on the loud and obnoxious side, and although we are capable of whispering, sometimes we still get a little out of control.

So keep all that in the back of your mind, and add this little tidbit.

CPod and I decided early on that we would use the correct anatomical names for all body parts when teaching them to our children. All body parts.

And we have three little boys in our family who, obviously, have all of the same body parts, most especially that one particular, most important, gender-defining organ. Ah, yes. The word that need not be posted on a blog for fear of its google-ability, but becomes immediately apparent to the discerning reader. The word with, I would guess, more euphemisms than any other word in the English language. (You should hear the ones we used when I was a kid.) The word which should most definitely not be spoken in church.

Except it was. Today. While the Deacons were passing the Sacrament. During the most quiet, reverent Sunday our ward has had in recent memory. ConMan was apparently in need of some, shall we say, realignment and felt the need to announce it to anyone within earshot. He couldn't have been that loud, you're thinking. Tell that to the six rows of people who stifled their giggles but still had shoulders a-shaking while the bread was passed.

5 comments:

I think I'm going to cry from laughing!!!! I SO WISH I could spend some time with those boys ... after 3 girls we are definitely learning new things with our little man. I can only imagine what I could learn at your place ;) In fact, when we went for our ultrasound with Coug and they said "here is his (word that need not be mentioned)" I almost had to ask her to stop saying that word!!! Not a term I was used to having to hear so "openly."

Good times. You might recall a little surgical episode we underwent with Todd while living in North Carolina. We are also an anatomically correct household. It sometimes does get interesting. But we haven't dealt with any sacrament anatomy. Just remember that it probably made everyone's day (and dinner conversation later).

We've done the same thing with our two little boys. I recall bringing the new baby to the doctor and sitting in the waiting room, a nice lady asks Ethan if his baby sibling was a brother or sister. Ethan loudly responds: "He has a p****, so he's a boy."

Or, loudly in a public place during a bout of unfortunate diaper rash "My scrotum hurts!" (I hope I didn't just blow your google cover).

Pennies from heaven . . .

To Comment, or Not to Comment?

I write for personal enrichment. It forces me to use my brain, improve my vocabulary, focus my energies, and exercise my talents. Even if there is only one person out there besides my blood relatives who reads a word I've written, I want my writing to be as clean and polished as possible for that one person, and for myself -- because I am a bit of a perfectionist, and because I have found that it is a singular pleasure to go back to old posts and reminisce about what my kids were doing, or what I was thinking about. I am grateful that even though I can't remember what was happening in my life six months ago (precisely) I have recorded something of the thoughts and events I was experiencing then.

I also read for personal enrichment. Sometimes I comment, sometimes I don't. But I never (can I say it louder? NEVER) comment just because I want someone else to comment on my blog. I would call that insincere. I would call that fake. I would call that a bit too much like middle school for comfort.

I comment when I feel moved to comment; when I have some valid question, or an answer for someone else's; when I feel inspired by someone's post, be it hilarious or harrowing or heartfelt. But I don't not comment because I disliked something. Sometimes it's just the opposite, and I feel like anything I could say would seem trite next to the extremely wonderful post I've been reading.

I expect the same of you, dear readers! Don't comment on my blog just because you want my comments. You may or may not get them, and if you do, it will have nothing to do with reciprocity. The only thing that will get me to comment on your blog is content.

So. I write for me. I read for me. Sometimes I comment. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I get comments. Sometimes I don't. But either way, I'll still be writing. And either way, I will have many happy days of reminiscing and remembering in the future because I had the wherewithal to write down some stuff about my life.

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About Me

You can call me InkMom (as in I'm Not Crazy Mommy, except with a K instead of a C because I don't want to be IncMom). I have been happily married to CPod since day one, which was just about 12 years ago. We have three little boys: G-Dog and ConMan are twins (they are 4), and Lil' MayDay just turned 3. We recently welcomed some more diversity into our family when baby girl Miscellany joined the crew.
We live in beautiful western North Carolina, and we love it, and we will never leave because I go through separation anxiety when I think about residing some place outside of these mountains. I am a mom, a musician, a teacher, a bookkeeper, a writer, a housekeeper, a scullery maid, a thinker, a runner, a daughter and a sister . . . but you'll learn all that eventually if I keep posting and you keep reading.